the iranian embassy
On Monday, I had to go to the Iranian embassy in Bern to take care of some very important business. I had to change my place of residence on my Iranian passport to Switzerland (it was in my best interest not to "be" from America, even though I'm not really a Swiss resident anymore!) and most importantly, to get an exit stamp in order to actually leave Iran after my trip. It was a rather interesting experience...
I arrived by car half an hour after the Iranian Consulate closed. Obviously, this was unintentional - the Internet told me I could go to the Embassy that closed at 5, but after talking to a security guard, it turned out that only the Consulate could help me and that I should come back the next day before noon. I did not want to go to Bern again, because Bern sucks, driving is boring and even Mohammed would have a hard time getting up that early with jetlag, so I used my high school theater skills to get my way. With lots of apologetic eyelash batting, I managed to convince them that I was leaving on Wednesday, and that it was absolutely imperative for them to give me the stamp because I was visiting an ageing relative and it may be the last time I could see her. I was also starting a new job in Geneva right after my trip, and had to get back in time. It worked, and they led me into a room full of Korans and portraits of Ayatollahs. I was really scared, but decided to take photos anyway, even though it's probably illegal.
I had my veil handy, and asked whether they would prefer me to wear it - I'd hate to offend them - but they just shrugged and did not appear to care. Shame - they were really missing out on some serious sexiness (not really.)
When the guy (presumably the ambassador) returned, the inquisition started.
"Do you speak Farsi?"
"No, I grew up in Switzerland, so I speak French."
"Hmm. You can't read the documents."
"I'm sorry."
"Hmm. Where are you living?"
"I was a student in the States, but I have finished and now live in Geneva."
"Have you ever lived anywhere else?"
"No, I have always lived in Geneva."
"Are you married or engaged to an American?"
"No."
"Do you have American nationality?"
"No."
"When are you going to Iran?"
"Next... Uh, on Wednesday."
"Why?"
"I have family there, and I'd like to know my country better. I'm really looking forward to it."
"Have you ever been to Iran?"
"When I was very small - two or three..."
"Hmm. So you need?"
"An exit stamp, and a change of residence to Switzerland, please."
"That will be 22... no, 24 francs."
"Alright."
And I waited in the room for about 15 minutes until he came back with everything. He made me sign a document in Farsi ("Just sign here." "But what does it say?") and fill in my address and phone number. I gave my old details, because I'm not actually a Swiss resident anymore - I was really scared he'd phone my ex-house and am still rather paranoid that the Iranian secret police will find out and blacklist me as an American spy or something equally awful.
Finally, I was free to enter and leave Iran without any problems, though I did have a hard time manipulating the triple-locked door on the way out.
I arrived by car half an hour after the Iranian Consulate closed. Obviously, this was unintentional - the Internet told me I could go to the Embassy that closed at 5, but after talking to a security guard, it turned out that only the Consulate could help me and that I should come back the next day before noon. I did not want to go to Bern again, because Bern sucks, driving is boring and even Mohammed would have a hard time getting up that early with jetlag, so I used my high school theater skills to get my way. With lots of apologetic eyelash batting, I managed to convince them that I was leaving on Wednesday, and that it was absolutely imperative for them to give me the stamp because I was visiting an ageing relative and it may be the last time I could see her. I was also starting a new job in Geneva right after my trip, and had to get back in time. It worked, and they led me into a room full of Korans and portraits of Ayatollahs. I was really scared, but decided to take photos anyway, even though it's probably illegal.
I had my veil handy, and asked whether they would prefer me to wear it - I'd hate to offend them - but they just shrugged and did not appear to care. Shame - they were really missing out on some serious sexiness (not really.)
When the guy (presumably the ambassador) returned, the inquisition started.
"Do you speak Farsi?"
"No, I grew up in Switzerland, so I speak French."
"Hmm. You can't read the documents."
"I'm sorry."
"Hmm. Where are you living?"
"I was a student in the States, but I have finished and now live in Geneva."
"Have you ever lived anywhere else?"
"No, I have always lived in Geneva."
"Are you married or engaged to an American?"
"No."
"Do you have American nationality?"
"No."
"When are you going to Iran?"
"Next... Uh, on Wednesday."
"Why?"
"I have family there, and I'd like to know my country better. I'm really looking forward to it."
"Have you ever been to Iran?"
"When I was very small - two or three..."
"Hmm. So you need?"
"An exit stamp, and a change of residence to Switzerland, please."
"That will be 22... no, 24 francs."
"Alright."
And I waited in the room for about 15 minutes until he came back with everything. He made me sign a document in Farsi ("Just sign here." "But what does it say?") and fill in my address and phone number. I gave my old details, because I'm not actually a Swiss resident anymore - I was really scared he'd phone my ex-house and am still rather paranoid that the Iranian secret police will find out and blacklist me as an American spy or something equally awful.
Finally, I was free to enter and leave Iran without any problems, though I did have a hard time manipulating the triple-locked door on the way out.
posted by atossa at 5:21 AM
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